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. hexis .
“… hexis is an active condition, a state in which something must actively hold itself. Virtue, therefore, manifests itself in action ...”
- Benjae, Phd Philosophy, MBA; now the manager of a growth targeted hooka bar; said over coffee while he studied the weather on a rainy morning.
There had been a dissemblance; a joust of terms and use of important concepts, of thoughts of thinkers. Words exchanged in various vicious shades of victory and dismay. Each had counsel, each had other involved party's urging, or restraint; I'd had mine and he's having his. My previous adored and her rituals.
The bar was dark and cold; there's no business in the ville during these holidays. He'd opened only to sit and put his ground tea leaves, snuff like, between his teeth and lip; to study the patterns of the rain on the table tops and concrete of the patio. I'd only approached and tapped on the door because I'd seen him, his beautiful graceful face, in the window above. I'd only stopped to ask him to sit for me; and somehow, again, I'd broken silence of it and spoken my sorrow.
He's thin and dark skinned; Ethiopian, and yes I'd laughed and had to explain to him a dance that I'd taken with her. His eyes, such brown upon white; his lids sliding down in contemplation. His speech is slow, giving each word the weight of consideration. His smiles are straight and bright. We talked for an hour there, together, sheltered on a long off-white fabric couch. He misses his home, his extended family, the success that would be so easily achieved in their midst. Because of her I understood all of this.
He, from his ancient world to this alternate universe, understood my hard fought foundation; agreed that the concepts themselves have undergone alterations. Time is unkind to principal and ethos; it becomes malleable, convenience, equivocations.
Cleveland, is comforted by circles in his existence; these however disturb his pace. ‘… psych’babble fer ages … makes mah mind spin … look at em … like lemmins …’
“Oh Martha, I saw one just like that but less expensive last week.” … “Oh Matty you say that all the time.” “Chris, let’s just go back to that other store again, they had it in a better color.” The quick attention grasp of partial conversations of the bypassing. ‘… fuckin’ woomsey mullwomp wantsit, needsit, hastohaveits all shovin’ and grabbin …’ Comparisons never possessed appeal since they always returned Cleveland to the same point of origin. ‘… damn jibbity jumpy woogely clap-trappers …’
Cleveland coughs hard and expectorates loudly into the rain filled gutter. A small boy, dragooned by his hurried parents, stares wide eyed and laughs loudly. Cleveland bares his twisted, untended, and uncared for teeth in a wide grin. The boy, now digging in his heels and pulling at his tightly gripped hands in order to point.
The crowd surges and flows around Cleveland’s tall rain slicked form giving him wide berth; parting as for a royal, or seas opening wide for his passage. Cleveland turns the corner onto Market heading down, down toward Mission, stamping puddles in his progress heading toward the tourist foodie places by the piers.
‘… mebbe tha’ dumpster b’hind that new Frenchie pastry place ... Paul's yeah … least th’ sun’s hidin’ an’t won’t smell sah rank …’ His line is direct and his perfect path clear, last night’s unsold, still packaged, flavors waiting there.
© Amanda 2013
Image: "Day after day" by © 2013
“… hexis is an active condition, a state in which something must actively hold itself. Virtue, therefore, manifests itself in action ...”
- Benjae, Phd Philosophy, MBA; now the manager of a growth targeted hooka bar; said over coffee while he studied the weather on a rainy morning.
____ . _____
There had been a dissemblance; a joust of terms and use of important concepts, of thoughts of thinkers. Words exchanged in various vicious shades of victory and dismay. Each had counsel, each had other involved party's urging, or restraint; I'd had mine and he's having his. My previous adored and her rituals.
____ . ____
The bar was dark and cold; there's no business in the ville during these holidays. He'd opened only to sit and put his ground tea leaves, snuff like, between his teeth and lip; to study the patterns of the rain on the table tops and concrete of the patio. I'd only approached and tapped on the door because I'd seen him, his beautiful graceful face, in the window above. I'd only stopped to ask him to sit for me; and somehow, again, I'd broken silence of it and spoken my sorrow.
He's thin and dark skinned; Ethiopian, and yes I'd laughed and had to explain to him a dance that I'd taken with her. His eyes, such brown upon white; his lids sliding down in contemplation. His speech is slow, giving each word the weight of consideration. His smiles are straight and bright. We talked for an hour there, together, sheltered on a long off-white fabric couch. He misses his home, his extended family, the success that would be so easily achieved in their midst. Because of her I understood all of this.
He, from his ancient world to this alternate universe, understood my hard fought foundation; agreed that the concepts themselves have undergone alterations. Time is unkind to principal and ethos; it becomes malleable, convenience, equivocations.
____ . ____
Cleveland, is comforted by circles in his existence; these however disturb his pace. ‘… psych’babble fer ages … makes mah mind spin … look at em … like lemmins …’
“Oh Martha, I saw one just like that but less expensive last week.” … “Oh Matty you say that all the time.” “Chris, let’s just go back to that other store again, they had it in a better color.” The quick attention grasp of partial conversations of the bypassing. ‘… fuckin’ woomsey mullwomp wantsit, needsit, hastohaveits all shovin’ and grabbin …’ Comparisons never possessed appeal since they always returned Cleveland to the same point of origin. ‘… damn jibbity jumpy woogely clap-trappers …’
Cleveland coughs hard and expectorates loudly into the rain filled gutter. A small boy, dragooned by his hurried parents, stares wide eyed and laughs loudly. Cleveland bares his twisted, untended, and uncared for teeth in a wide grin. The boy, now digging in his heels and pulling at his tightly gripped hands in order to point.
The crowd surges and flows around Cleveland’s tall rain slicked form giving him wide berth; parting as for a royal, or seas opening wide for his passage. Cleveland turns the corner onto Market heading down, down toward Mission, stamping puddles in his progress heading toward the tourist foodie places by the piers.
‘… mebbe tha’ dumpster b’hind that new Frenchie pastry place ... Paul's yeah … least th’ sun’s hidin’ an’t won’t smell sah rank …’ His line is direct and his perfect path clear, last night’s unsold, still packaged, flavors waiting there.
© Amanda 2013
Image: "Day after day" by © 2013
.April ending.
.April ending.
Twitter™ is also like this, her search through detritus layers of life; linear in procedure. Time as lines, the TL: a wanted sequence for us to cling to even knowing the quantum cosmology of particle and wave mechanics. Twitter does not randomly present us. Neglecting even the theme sequence groupings which is a more likely portrayal of our natures.
It is left to us to paint our own contrails.
Across her words lay themes, not necessarily unique or original, but hers. An underlying hum of message machinery, not to be heard but sensed, felt.
The longing for the extraneous 'power' to which we cling, adhere, our desire fo
. backgrounds .
. backgrounds .
eat me play me
.
"And it feels as though God has abandoned you … in a stark place."
-A. Christie-
.
.
An arrangement of pieces, choreography of accidental encounters each of which denied them a presence or indicated any possible progress.
.
I do not command, I obtain.
.
She'd belittled the Plath of me, that small measure which i yet adored; that then, became a tipping point in our conjectured inevitability.
.
in crush
you lick
the soil soul of
my backgrounds
.
I'll make you quiet.
.
slicing through the young
smiling
alcohol ghost
.
I'll make you run.
.
driv
.upon surrender.
.upon surrender.
.
... only she knows ...
.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
E.Bishop
.
i sang
.
touch stones without remark tumbled
one after another
pathway footsteps
unnoted
one
after
another
no clack of disapprovals shed
one after another
creek bed’s
surrender
ocean’s
slickened
staid
.
as though i were an insult though they never spat me out
as though i were a crime they'd committed in dead of night
as though i were several different outfits now out
.last love.
.last love.
.
Why?
because i want to see beautiful things
think beautiful things
dream beautiful things
.
.
Oh they're running t'old steam engine tour train through t'valley today. God i wish i was having coal smoke and burning cinders blowin in my face. *picturing the screaming flaming tourists beating each other*
Fuck me with a jackhammer humans ARE the funniest damn creatures. Mom to six year old child "Hurry honey get that pretty summer frock on, we've got to catch the open air tour train!" Two hours later the scorched-hair tour family clambers offa the Old Timey tour train ... "Now wasn't THAT fun!"
And you know what REALLY ma
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© 2013 - 2024 Amanda-Graham
Comments7
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Many thanks, Amanda...
Happy New Year to you!